Most Unpleasant
by dee ayy
Summary: Ichabod Crane finds himself injured and in an Emergency Room. Alone. Set immediately after S1/Ep2, "Blood Moon."


Most Unpleasant

By dee_ayy

August 31, 2014

"I'll pick you up tonight around six and we'll get something for dinner, okay?"

Ichabod nodded in assent as he exited the car. "I will see you then, lieutenant."

"Get some sleep!" Abbie shouted out the open window as she drove out of the motel parking lot.

The morning sun warmed his face as Crane climbed the stairs to his chamber, noting with pleasure that there was no longer a police officer guarding the premises. He supposed that, after their encounter with Serilda of Abadon, Miss Mills no longer had reason to doubt him. At least, he hoped that was the case.

After several frustrating failed attempts, Crane was finally successful in opening his door with the thin card the lieutenant had called his _key._ It was unlike any key he had ever encountered, but that was hardly surprising. Just about everything was unlike anything he'd ever encountered; why not a key? He entered the room, closed the door, and stood just within, contemplating his next move.

He was tired, to be sure—he hadn't slept since the vision of Katrina had woken him almost 48 hours ago. But even still, he was sure sleep would be elusive. His mind had been spinning ever since he awoke in that cave several days ago, and never more so than when he had a moment to himself, when there was no imminent danger to address. One would think it the opposite, and that the quiet moments would allow him rest, but that was maddeningly not the case. Only utter exhaustion allowed him slumber, and he was not feeling that now. But he had over ten hours to pass before Miss Mills would return. The _television_ was one option, one that he found entirely distasteful, given his first encounter with the machine. There was the Bible he had located in a drawer, but he knew its contents by heart so there would be no amusement to be found within its pages.

He did an about-face, and reopened his door. He would go for a stroll. Perhaps he could find a quiet path away from the assaulting noises and smells of these buildings and _automobiles;_ a place where he might find some fresh air and some peace to calm his reeling mind. Yes, that is what he would do.

To his surprise it took Ichabod no time at all to find the quiet space he was craving. One turn off the main busy thoroughfare and within moments he was in a residential area, where the homes were spaced further apart and set off from the road, leaving nothing but a tree-lined street for him to amble upon. He allowed himself deep breaths of air as he walked. The buildings he encountered looked older, as if from his era, even if they clearly were not. If not for the solid black pavement, and the motor carriages in front of the houses, he could almost imagine he was back home.

But Crane's quiet solitude was short lived. He was not far down the road when an automobile pulled up beside and slowed down to keep pace with him. He glanced to his left, watching the window creep down, and the young man within spoke. "Hey, hipster douchebag! Go back to Brooklyn!" The other two boys in the car laughed.

Ichabod stopped, so the car did, too. "I beg your pardon?" he asked.

"Listen, Thomas Jefferson, you look like a complete idiot. Get some real clothes!"

Ichabod bent slightly to face the boys in the car through the window and clasped his hands behind his back. "My dear boys," he began, smiling smugly, "if you knew Thomas Jefferson as I knew him, you would know that his clothing was of a much finer quality than my own, especially in its current condition. But I thank you for the compliment all the same."

Satisfied that he had put these impertinent children in their place, Crane turned and continued walking down the street, away from the car.

But again, his respite was short lived. He heard the automobile speed up, and once again it pulled up next to Ichabod, moving the car close to the berm, and practically pushing the walking man into the shallow ditch that ran alongside. Crane stopped again, and this time the boy in the passenger seat threw his door open. It slammed into Ichabod's hip, knocking him off his feet.

Crane quickly righted himself, dusting the dirt and gravel from his clothes while noting that the automobile had stopped in front of him, and two of the three boys were approaching. He squared his shoulders to stand at his full height, wincing slightly when he moved his hip.

"That was uncalled for," is all he said.

The carriage's driver huffed at him. "What's uncalled for, jackass, is you acting like some high and mighty know-it-all."

"I believe it was you who engaged with me. I was merely walking. And if it is all the same to you, I shall continue on my way. I have no interest in engaging with you further. But as you are clearly interested in vestments, may I suggest that a belt would prevent your trousers from falling off as they are."

"Listen, Prince Charles," the boy who'd knocked him down replied, "where do you get off, talking like that?"

"This, young man, is how I speak. If it is not in keeping with your current vernacular, that is neither my fault, nor my concern. I bid you good day." Crane nodded once, turned, and started walking back to the main road.

He heard one of the boys muttering something behind him, but Ichabod kept walking briskly back toward his lodgings. He was rubbing his sore hip, and pondering the unfortunate death of respect for one's elders over the centuries, when he felt a sudden force behind him. He had enough time to register that one of the boys was attacking him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides, when he fell. His head hit the pavement, and he knew no more.

x*x*x*x*x

He was moving, he could tell, but he could not move. He tried to lift his arm, but felt someone grab it, and a far-away voice admonished him. He tried to turn his head toward the sound, and that, too, would not move, as his neck was ensconced in something quite rigid.

He opened his eyes, and they would not focus. He could make out shadows and flashing red light, but that was all. It was most unpleasant, so he closed them again.

"Your name?" he heard the voice ask. Was it speaking to him?

His mind was slow and muddled, so he couldn't be sure. And when he felt a dark, heavy shroud begin to descend upon his every sense, he was powerless to stop it.

x*x*x*x*x

When awareness returned he had absolutely no idea where he was or what was happening. But that wasn't an altogether unfamiliar feeling, having experienced it mere days ago. Again he was encased in very close quarters, but unlike the darkness of his prior crypt, this one was bright white.

And when he tried to free himself, he discovered that he was restrained. Panic struck, and he fiercely battled against his ties, trying to get free.

"SIR! SIR, you can't move!"

Of course he couldn't move; someone had made sure of that. But he was not about to lie quietly in another tomb, so he continued his struggle. He felt a momentary rush of triumph as he freed his right hand, with which he immediately tried to free the other. Victory was short-lived, however, when he was removed from his encasement and several people were physically holding him down, much like had happened days earlier in the asylum.

"STOP!" he cried, still grappling. "Unhand me at once!"

"Sir! Sir!" one of the people—he wasn't sure which—admonished. "We're trying to help you!"

"I am not in need of assistance! Release me at once!"

The hands and straps were not released. He heard one person say to another "Call the doctor," and then turn his attention back to Crane, leaning over so he was face-to-face with the captured man. "Listen to me," the man said with a steely calm. "You've been in an accident, do you understand? You're in the hospital. We're just trying to help you."

Ichabod had slowed his efforts in order to listen to the young man. _An accident?_ But as soon as he heard the word "hospital," he resumed his furious battle to get free. Hospitals, he fervently believed, were not a wise place to be under any circumstance.

A man in a white coat arrived at Crane's side. "Hey, hey!" he said to Ichabod to get his attention. That was rude, but he looked at the man all the same. "I'm Doctor Fletcher. I'm one of the ER doctors who saw you when you were brought in. Do you know where you are?"

Ichabod glanced around with his eyes, all he could easily move. "The other gentleman informed me that I am in a hospital. But I insist you release me at once."

"No can do, buddy." _Buddy?_ "Can you tell me your name?" As he asked, the doctor flashed a bright light in Ichabod's eye, which was quite painful, and caused him to flinch away.

"My name is Ichabod Crane. Please don't _do_ that," he begged as the light assaulted his other eye. "And please release me from these bonds." He pulled against them again, and when a hand grabbed his right arm to hold it down, Crane noticed a tube running from a bag of some sort, culminating at a spot on his arm where it seemed to disappear under his skin. What was _that?_

"Can't do that as long as you are combative, Mr. Crane. Can you tell me what happened to you today?"

Ichabod thought for a moment, and found his memory for the time since Miss Mills had left him at his chamber to be . . . completely blank. Although he tried, he knew he'd failed to keep the look of alarm from his face when the doctor asked, "Can't remember, huh?"

"It seems I cannot."

"That's not unusual. You were found unconscious by the side of the road and brought here. We're assuming you were hit by a car. Can you tell me what day it is?"

It was a Wednesday, he was sure of that. Was that enough? But it was a silly question. "Surely you know what day it is," he replied.

The doctor smiled. "I do. Do you?"

"It is Wednesday. Why are you asking such nonsensical questions?"

"Just checking your cognitive function. Who is the president?"

Oh, no. While he had absorbed many pieces of information about this century, no one had told him the name of the current president, and he had not seen fit to ask.

"I'm afraid I cannot say," he confessed.

The doctor just nodded. "Do you know where you live?"

Where did he live? In 1781, that's where he lived. Not in this shockingly bright world full of sights and sounds and smells that were completely foreign to him. Not to mention these rude and impertinent people.

He knew he could say none of that; however, he did not know the proper way to convey his place of lodging. "I last slept in a . . . . motel, I believe you call it."

"Okay, good. Are you visiting Sleepy Hollow?"

"No. I reside here." That was the truth, anyway. Whatever the century, he did live in Sleepy Hollow.

"But you don't have a home of your own."

"Not at this time, no."

The look exchanged between the doctor and the woman writing down what he was saying was not lost on Crane.

Ichabod decided it was worth asking again. "Will you please release me?"

The doctor grinned at him. "That depends. Will you stay still and let us finish our scan?"

"Your what?"

"The Cat scan. We need to clear your head and neck, at least, but I'd like to get some pictures of your chest and pelvis. You already have some sizable bruises developing." As he spoke, the doctor nodded toward the large contraption Ichabod had found himself inside when he woke.

_Cats?_ Pictures? And what was this "clearing" of which he spoke? The doctor sounded as if anyone would know what he was talking about, but of course Crane did not. He felt the panic rising in his chest. He had no idea what to say, what the "correct" response would be, and he had no avenue of escape, tied down as he was. Instinct took over, and he renewed his struggle to free himself.

This was greeted with the renewed efforts of the others to quell his movement.

"Please! I cannot be entombed again. You must unbind me at once!" He regretted the word "again" as soon as it left his lips, but immediately realized that all in the room thought he was referring to what had happened a few moments ago, rather than the few days ago to which he'd actually been referring.

"If you don't calm down we will have to sedate you. You don't want that," the one in the white coat admonished.

Sedate him. He knew they meant to do that with some sort of drug, as that was what they had been trying to do to him at the asylum before Miss Mills had intervened. And if there was one thing he was sure of in the bewildering new world in which he found himself, it was that he needed to keep his wits about him at all times.

Miss Mills! Of course! Obviously his mind was not as clear as it should be, as he should have requested her presence at once.

He immediately calmed. "I will do as you ask," he offered, "but I ask one thing in return. Will you please contact Lieutenant Abigail Mills of your Sheriff's department, and inform her of my predicament?"

"We already called the cops," one of the people started to answer.

"No" Crane interrupted. "Not _the cops._" He had heard that turn of phrase used in the police station, so he knew it referred to the constabulary. "I request that you contact one specific _cop._ Abigail Mills. Will you do that for me?"

"Will you settle down and let us finish our tests?" the doctor asked.

"If you contact Miss Mills, I will," Ichabod promised.

He saw the doctor nod to the woman taking notes, who left the room. "Then, Mr. Crane, we have ourselves a deal."

x*x*x*x*x

He'd closed his eyes and concentrated on taking deep, calming breaths, and had survived his time back in the confining white tube. He'd then been moved to his current location-a smaller room, still impossibly brightly lit, and filled with instruments and devices the uses of which he had no idea—in many ways it resembled some sort of torture chamber. He fervently wished to make his escape, but he was still tied down flat on his back, and had not long ago realized that he was bare beneath the thin sheet that covered him to his waist. His clothing was nowhere that he could see.

Besides, as the activity surrounding his person had died away, Ichabod had become more and more aware of the pain. His head throbbed terribly, his ribs ached considerably with every breath, and his left hip was hurting as well. He tried again to reconstruct what had happened to land him in this situation, but again was unsuccessful. The time between arriving at his room and awaking inside the _CT Scanner_, as he'd heard them call it, was completely blank.

A young woman and man entered his room, and the girl smiled kindly as the two began to release him from the various devices restricting his movement.

"Doctor says we can remove all of this. Provided you promise not to run away."

Ichabod arched his eyebrows ruefully at her words. It was not a surprise that they'd surmised his desire for escape; he'd made his discomfort in this place and with these people perfectly clear. "It would appear that I am unclothed. Where would I go?"

The young lady tittered as she removed the encasement from his neck. "We can get you off this board, too," she offered. "I know how uncomfortable being on a backboard is. Can you roll toward me? And then Sam will pull the board out."

Eager to improve his level of comfort, Crane rolled toward the girl, but instantly regretted it, as the pressure on his left hip caused the pain to flare and he could not keep from gasping. He saw the alarm register on her face, but to her credit, she instructed the young man to pull out the board, so the movement had not been in vain. Ichabod collapsed onto his back and sighed with relief.

"So sorry about that," she said to him as she did something, Crane could not see what, that caused the head of the bed to rise of its own accord, allowing him to sit up somewhat with no further action on his part. Miraculous. "Should have had you roll onto your other hip."

"Quite all right," Ichabod told her as he witnessed the young man leave with the board to which he'd been strapped. This perspective was much improved, and when he looked down he noticed that several curious small white patches were affixed to his chest. He had so many questions. "I have felt worse."

He caught sight of her assessing the large scar on his chest as she started plucking the white bits off. "I can see that," she agreed, saying no more. The young woman pulled the sheet up over his chest as she removed the last of the patches. He wanted to ask her about them. He wanted to ask her so many things, but he was unsure what he should already know; what he could ask about without seeming a fool.

"Are you cold? Do you want a blanket?"

"I would like to go home," he muttered.

The girl smiled at him again, as she spread a blanket across his legs. He pulled it up to his chest, again noting the tubing in his arm.

"The doctor will be in soon," she told him, and started to leave the room.

"Might I ask you a question?" Curiosity was getting the best of him, and she seemed as though she wouldn't judge.

The girl stopped and turned back to face her patient. "Of course. Anything."

Ichabod lifted his right arm to show her the contraption. "What is this?"

"The IV?" she responded. So it was called an _eye vee. _Progress. "Every trauma patient gets one in case they need blood or medicine fast." Crane's mind started racing with this new information. _Trauma,_ of course—they believed he'd been struck by an automobile, which could cause immense trauma to the victim. Needing blood? He would have to investigate that later. Needing medicine; this he understood.

"So it is a device for the delivery of medicine directly into one's," he studied it closer, "_veins?_" Was use of such things common knowledge in this time, he wondered?

A look of puzzlement crossed the young lady's face before she answered. "Yes, exactly."

"Fascinating," Ichabod uttered as he studied it more closely, following the line up to the bag hanging from the pole. "Am I receiving medication right now?"

"No," the young lady told him. "That's just saline. Salt water. Keeps the line open, just in case. We'll remove it when the doctor clears you for release."

"I see. Thank you, Miss . . . I am so sorry, I do not know your name."

"Lisa."

He waited for her to give her surname, but when she did not, he continued, "Thank you, Miss Lisa. You have been most kind."

She rested her hand on his blanketed foot, and gave it a slight squeeze. "My pleasure, Ichabod. Why don't you rest. Like I said, the doctor should be in soon."

When Lisa left the room, Crane leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He knew that he should be spending this time trying to discern more information about his situation and his surroundings, but he was quite sure he could not absorb one more thing. He was exhausted. And in pain.

x*x*x*x*x

The sound of whispering woke Ichabod from his light slumber. But before he deigned to open his eyes, he listened.

"Concussion, couple of cracked ribs, badly bruised hip. Nothing too serious." Crane recognized the doctor's voice. "He can go home tonight, provided he has somewhere to go. I gather he's indigent?"

The injured man didn't open his eyes, but he did speak. "I am most certainly not indigent, thank you very much." As the words left his mouth, though, he realized their falseness. He had no money, no home, and now, as far as he knew, not even the clothes on his back. The doctor's assessment was, in fact, soberingly accurate.

"Crane!" He felt Miss Mills' small hand rest on his forearm. "What happened? Why did you leave your room? Are you okay?"

He opened his eyes. "I believe I am well, or shall be in good time."

"But what happened?"

"I am afraid I cannot say."

"Doesn't remember," the doctor offered. "Not unusual after a blow to the head. Based on the location where he was found, we treated him as if it was a hit-and-run."

He watched the lieutenant clench her jaw in what he interpreted to be anger. "How long was he out?"

"We have no idea how long he was by the side of the road before a jogger found him. But between EMTs and here, we're talking half an hour before he regained consciousness."

His partner shook her head, and Crane watched as she turned her attention back to him. "Headache?"

"Quite."

"Can he go home?" she asked the doctor.

"I'd really like to keep him for a while longer. He was extremely confused and combative when he woke up." Crane looked at Miss Mills with widened eyes, hoping she would understand his unspoken communication.

"But everything else is okay?" she asked, lightly squeezing his arm to let him know she'd received his message.

"Yes, like I said, no serious injuries; just the concussion, which I want to keep an eye on."

"I know the warning signs. Can't I do that?"

"Yes, I suppose."

"Miss Mills, I cannot ask you…" the lieutenant silenced Crane with a stern look, which he heeded.

"I'll go write his discharge papers, then. But if he experiences any escalation of symptoms—dizziness, nausea, confusion—I want him back in here immediately. Understand?"

"Understood."

The doctor left the room, and Crane immediately started. "Miss Mills, I am most grateful, but,"

Again she cut him off. "Let's just get you out of here, what do you say?"

"I would say that is an excellent idea."

"Then it's settled. What's this about combative and confused, though? Why'd you look at me like that?"

"Well, my confusion had nothing to do with my injury. He asked me to name the President of the United States."

"And of course you didn't know."

"Correct."

"Got it. If they ask again, it's Barack Obama. And combative?"

"I am afraid I am guilty of that charge."

"You had to know that would get you nowhere. What happened?"

"Miss Mills," he began sternly. "Surely if you believe my history, which at this point I am confident you _do_, you can appreciate how disquieting it would be to wake up completely immobilized inside a small white tube of some sort, with no idea how I arrived there, or what was happening."

"Oh, Crane," the lieutenant commiserated. "Did you wake up in the scanner?"

"I believe that is what they called it, yes."

"Are you claustrophobic?"

He shook his head, unsure of that word.

"It means afraid of small, enclosed spaces."

"Ah," Crane allowed. "_Claustro,_ from the Latin _claustrum_ or perhaps the French _cloister_, in either case meaning enclosed space, and the Latin _phobus _or Greek _phobe,_ meaning fear."

"Okay," Miss Mills said with a raised eyebrow, "Nothing wrong with your brain."

"Simple etymology," Ichabod dismissed. "But to answer your question, no, I do not believe I suffer from a fear of enclosed spaces. Although after my experience these past . . . centuries . . . it is perhaps possible I have developed such a condition."

"Until proven otherwise, let's just chalk it up to the general confusion of the situation, okay?"

Crane nodded once. "My discomfiture was admittedly rather extreme."

"Still no idea what happened, huh?"

"I am afraid not."

She pointed at his chest. "Can I look?"

He nodded, and she lowered the blanket. He noted her quick appraisal of the scar on his chest, but like the nurse and to her credit, she made no mention, instead turning her full attention to the bruises blooming on his left side. She touched one, but did not put any pressure on it, much to his relief.

"Those look like boot marks, Crane," she said. He briefly wondered why she would know such a thing, but remained silent. "I don't think you were hit by a car. I think you were mugged."

"_Mugged?_"

"I think someone beat you up."

"I see." Ichabod pondered that thought for a moment. He looked at his hands, specifically his knuckles. "I would like to think that if that were the case, I would have endeavored to protect myself."

Miss Mills moved his hair off his forehead, touching a spot there that was so tender it stole his breath for a moment, and he involuntarily recoiled from her touch. "Not if you were tackled, Crane. I think someone jumped you from behind, you fell and smacked your head, probably knocking yourself out. And then he kicked you."

_Tackled. Jumped you. Smacked. Knocking out._ Despite the colorful choice of baffling words, her meaning was clear to him. "How can you be so confident about what happened, when I have no idea?"

She turned slightly to show the badge on her hip. "It's what I do, remember?"

"Indeed."

The lieutenant moved out of Crane's line of sight, and returned with a pile of fabric. His clothing, he noted with relief. She went through the garments, inspecting each piece, nodding approvingly at their condition. "Didn't cut them. That's a surprise," she muttered, but he did not ask her why. She looked up at him. "Think you can get dressed, or do you need help?"

Ichabod sat up fully, guarding his left side with his right hand. "I am sure I can manage, but first I will need to have this," he gestured toward the _eye vee, _"removed."

The lieutenant walked to the counter and picked something up, opening it with her teeth. Then took his arm, turned a small lever on the contraption, held what she'd picked up-some sort of bandage, it turned out-and with one deft motion she removed the thing from his arm, and placed the bandage over the spot where it had been. "Don't tell," she said to him with a wink, before coiling up the tubing and wheeling it away.

"Miss Mills," Crane exclaimed with amazement. "You are versed in medical arts as well?"

The woman smiled. "Just basic first aid, Crane," she explained. "All cops are trained in it. And over the years you pick up a few more things. We could be here another hour waiting for a nurse to come in and do that, so . . . ."

He had not heard this phrase _first aid_ before, but it seemed simple enough. In fact, he realized, that is what Katrina and nurses like her had been delivering to his fellow soldiers: _first aid_ to the wounded.

"Let's get you dressed," the lieutenant offered. She looked around the small room again. "Where is your coat?" He offered her a reproachful look. "Right. You don't know. I'll go find out." And she was gone.

Ichabod gingerly sat on the edge of his bed, and carefully pulled on his undergarment. He then went to his stockings and breeches. He found his boots in the corner, and suffered exquisitely as he bent and pulled them on. He was standing by the bed, tying his shirt, when Miss Mills returned.

"No coat, Crane," she told him. "You didn't have one when you were brought in. Did you leave it in your room?"

"I would not have left without it, Miss Mills. That would be most improper."

"Well, don't know what to say then." She held up a sheaf of papers. "I have your discharge instructions. You'll need to sign some papers on your way out, but we are free to go."

He nodded to her as he fastened the final tie on his shirt and tucked it into his breeches.

"The papers will say you are homeless, Crane. Don't argue, okay? Just sign them."

"Why would I argue, Miss Mills," he replied. "Is it not the truth?" He limped past her and out the door.

x*x*x*x*x

He was safely ensconced in Miss Mills' automobile, much to his relief, and he closed his eyes to avoid watching the buildings speed past, as that only aggravated his aching head.

"The doctor gave me a 'scrip for pain medication. Do you need it?"

He did not have a clue what she was talking about, and found he did not have the energy to answer, so he did not.

"Crane," she spoke more insistently this time. "Are you in pain? The doctor arranged for you to have pain medication if you need it, but I'll need to go to the drug store to pick it up. Do you want me to?"

"If I am being quite honest, lieutenant," he replied without opening his eyes, "I am experiencing some discomfort. But will this _medication_ dull my wits?"

The lieutenant let out a single huff of laughter. "It will dull your wits, your pain, and a few other things."

"If that is the case, I thank you, but no. Given my current circumstance, I feel it wise to remain as clear-headed as possible."

"I hear ya, Crane," she answered, which he took to mean she agreed.

"I have endured my share of pain in my life. Comparatively, this is but a trifle. Some rest is all I need, I am quite certain." Ichabod opened his eyes just in time to see the vehicle race past his lodgings.

"Miss Mills?" he queried.

"The responding officer to your incident told me where you were found. Thought we'd drive by. Maybe it'll jog your memory. Okay? But we can do it later if you're not up to it now."

Yet another confusing turn of phrase just caused Crane to sigh and look away from the woman beside him.

"Sorry," she apologized, grasping her mistake. "I thought maybe seeing where it happened will help you remember."

"Ah," Crane answered. "Yes, I would like that. This gap in my memory is most disconcerting. I understand being unaware of the time while I was unconscious, of course, but why can I not remember the time immediately before that?"

"Dunno, Crane," Miss Mills said. "But I do know that it's pretty common after a blow to the head. It'll come back to you, I bet. And if it doesn't, it doesn't."

She pulled the car to the side of the road. "This is it," she told him. "The cop told me that there was evidence a car had pulled over a short distance in front of where they found you, indicating that perhaps someone hit you, they stopped, and then took off. Absent any other evidence, or any witnesses, they went with that."

Ichabod gingerly alighted from the car, again pressing against his aching ribs as he walked slowly along the side of the road. He stopped and looked around carefully. Finally, he spoke.

"I have no memory of this place, Miss Mills. I am sorry."

"Don't worry about it, Crane," the police officer answered. "It was a long shot anyway."

_Long shot._ That one he understood.

"Let's get you home, okay?"

He nodded. When he returned to the car, he leaned his head back, and closed his eyes again. Suddenly his exhaustion was overwhelming.

The motion of the automobile was lulling him into slumber, when he felt it suddenly veer to the left and stop. "Lieutenant!" he exclaimed, but she was already jumping out. Should he follow? He did not have the energy.

Miss Mills was only gone a moment, and to his utter amazement, when she returned she had his woolen coat in her hands. She climbed back in the car, and dropped it on his lap.

"Where on earth?"

"Saw something on the ground over by that dumpster." She indicated a large metal receptacle of some sort. "Something looked familiar about it; thought it might be your coat, and I was right."

"You are most observant," he said as he ran his hand over the familiar fabric.

She grinned. "You know what this means, don't you?"

No, he had no idea. He did not reply.

"Means I was right. It wasn't a hit and run. Hit and run drivers don't steal stuff. You were attacked, Crane. They probably stole your coat to go through the pockets, and ditched it when they didn't find anything."

Suddenly a phrase popped into Crane's head. "Hipster douchebag," he said aloud.

"WHAT?!" the police woman exclaimed with a laugh.

"Hipster douchebag!" Ichabod repeated, feeling somewhat relieved. "Three young men in a motor carriage; one of them called me that. Of course I had no idea to what he was referring, but it became apparent he was speaking of my finery."

Lieutenant Mills chuckled. "Yeah, probably. I'll explain what a 'hipster' is later. What else do you remember?"

Crane searched his memory. "Not much," he confessed. "They also mocked my manner of speech. But that is all I recall."

"It's a start. We'll talk more about it later."

x*x*x*x*x

The simple act of climbing the flight of stairs to his room sapped what remained of Ichabod's energy, and a good deal of his strength. When he reached the door he turned to bid Miss Mills farewell.

"Forget it, Crane," the woman responded, pulling out one of the flat keys from her purse and opening the door. That she had the key to his bed chamber was disconcerting, but Crane chose to keep his peace. She entered and held the door until he, too, crossed the threshold.

"You need to be woken every two hours to make sure your head injury isn't getting worse."

"I could not ask you to do such a thing," he responded. "I am sure I will be fine."

"You're not asking, I'm offering." She pulled down the blankets on his bed. "Why don't you lie down. You have to be dead on your feet by now."

"_Dead on my?_" but as he repeated the phrase, it made its meaning known to him. "Ah," he offered. "You are saying that I am fatigued. I confess that is accurate." He sat on the bed and pulled off his boots, careful of his aching ribs.

"But Miss Mills, you must be as tired as I am. I must apologize for having those at the hospital interrupt your rest. I simply, well, I did not know what else to do."

The woman sat on the bed opposite his. "No trouble, Crane," she offered. "I'm glad you had them call me. I imagine it was all a little . . . _much _for you."

"If you mean to say that the experience was disquieting and perplexing, you would be correct."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, people from this century find emergency rooms scary and confusing, too."

"Scary and . Perhaps later, when this throbbing in my head has subsided, you can explain some of the things I encountered." Miss Mills nodded her accord.

"Thank you. You have already been of great assistance to me, and I do appreciate it."

"Nah, you'd made it through the worst before I got there. And seeing as no one suggested committing you to Tarrytown Psychiatric, I'd say you managed just fine. I just greased the wheels," she stopped, suddenly realizing, "you have no idea what that means. I just paved the," she stopped again. "Sorry. Another one. I just was able to expedite your release."

The man allowed a small grin, and ducked his head in acknowledgment. "And for that, I must thank you again. This entire morning has been most unpleasant."

"I'd say that's probably an understatement," she agreed. "Get some rest." She sat back on the other bed until she was sitting with her back against the headboard, with her feet up.

"I'll be right here if you need anything."

This world and this time remained absolutely bewildering to him, but in those eight simple words he found immense comfort.

Ichabod Crane settled himself onto his bed, and closed his eyes.

THE END


End file.
